'She's mine, willingly mine, thanks to thy kindly help.
Physician, cure thyself—now 'Learn to forgive.'
"Gerald."
It having been shown that Gerald's diabolical scheme, so far as the abduction went, was carried out with entire success, pass we now a month. Gerald has established himself in the capital, having provided Mary with an elegant suite of apartments, under the same roof with himself, although not immediately adjoining. His behavior to her was studiously kind, tempered with thorough respect; hoping by such means slowly and insidiously to reach his aim through the medium of her own affection.
Poor Mary herself hardly dared to think; for her temperament was of that soft and womanly nature, which rendered it impossible for her to contend energetically against the assaults of the world—that most beautiful of all female characteristics, which is content to look up to and to reverence, yearning for some natural support and protection, and clinging to it when discovered with an enduring tenacity, only to be found in such a woman's love.
To all her inquiries concerning Frank, Gerald answered evasively, but to her satisfaction; still treating her with the greatest possible show of reserve and kindness, his manner imperceptibly increasing in fervor day by day—letting it be inferred more by his looks than words that she was dearer to him than he dared to acknowledge. The consequence of this specious manœuvering began gradually to make itself evident in the state of Mary's feelings. Now she involuntary hoped for his coming—seriously deploring his departure; his fiend-like intent was in a fair way to be completed, when his own impetuosity destroyed the vile fabric. Encouraged by her quiet, passive manner, he ventured prematurely to unfold his guilty purpose. Who can describe the terrible revulsion of feeling which took place in Mary's soul when the full certainty of his guilty design was made apparent? With a mighty effort she checked the burning flood of passion which swelled up from her heart, and subduing herself into perfect calmness, listened to his infamous proposal. A deep hectic glow on each cheek, and a slight difficulty in respiration only evidencing her intense emotion. What more he said she knew not—heard not—for while he was pouring forth some wild rhapsody she was in deep communion with her soul. Construing her submissive silence advantageously to himself, he quitted the apartment. The instant he left her presence, the pent up current of her feelings burst all bounds. She flung herself upon her knees and wept a prayer of agony—the helpless, almost hopeless appeal of innocence within the very grasp of vice; kissing her mother's gift, the Gospel Charm, she bathed it in tears, imploring it to save her from this dreadful crisis. This outpouring of her spirit calmed and soothed her, for in her extremity there came a thought of safety. To think was to resolve, and ere many moments had elapsed, with a firm reliance on the help of a merciful Providence, Mary quitted the house. It was nearly midnight—dark and bitterly cold—yet she cared not for the darkness—felt not the chilling blast; unknown and friendless, she knew not where to go, but wandered street after street, satisfied that she was away from him who had so cruelly insulted her. Hurrying on, she knew not whither, she suddenly came in contact with a well-known form; recoiling a step or two, they gazed on each other for an instant. 'Twas thus met the brother and his sister. That chance which he had hungered for, week after week, had occurred at last; seizing her in a nervous gripe, Frank dragged her to the nearest lamp. "Mary," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling from suppressed passion, a wild fire flashing from his eyes, "are you still worthy to be called my sister?"
"Brother, I am," meekly replied Mary.
"You are not his cast-away?"
"No! by my mother's dying gift."
"To a merciful God be all the praise," fervently cried Frank, as he folded her to his heart with a thrill of rapture.